Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Game of Revenge ❯ Chapter 4

A/N:: again, all characters, ideas, plot, etc are mine, no stealing, copying, etc.

Reviews are awesome

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It was early the next morning, before the sun had climbed above the horizon, when Jack returned to his home, his black hair dripping into his eyes and his clothes soaked through. He had spent the night searching the streets, and had found nothing to help him pursue Edward's killer. He dragged his feet up the creaking staircase and down the threadbare carpet of the tenth floor. After fumbling a minute for his keys, Jack opened the door to his meager apartment. It had two rooms and a bathroom. The living room was furnished with a well-worn couch, a radio, and a floor lamp, and then in the attached kitchen, a small card table with three wooden chairs around it was the only friend of the ice box, sink and stove. The other room was his bedroom, which, besides the obvious feature, was home to a small chest of drawers and a mirror. He entered, shutting the door behind him, and carelessly tossed his hat and coat onto the hooks on the wall beside him with a heavy sigh. Running a hand through his soggy hair, Jack walked into his tiny living room and sat upon an arm of the overstuffed couch with a groan and pulled the shoes from his sore and blistered feet. He unbuttoned his over-shirt, pulled it off, and then bunched it up and threw it into the far corner. As light began to filter through the thin curtains in the windows, Jack begrudged the fact that he would have to go in to his office in a few short hours, to gaze over stupid case files of stolen horses and drunkards shooting each other when all he wanted to do was hunt down that little shit that had murdered his friend. (And sleep), he added to himself as he yawned widely. However, it was important that he go in, and Jack knew it. He couldn't afford to lose his job, no matter how lousy, and so he pulled himself off the couch and set about making breakfast, procuring a bottle of whiskey from its lonely cupboard as he went, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous amount into a clean mug.

Jack's office was on the third floor of the Boston Police Headquarters building. Although he was a private detective, the local police force was often over-taxed, and thusly called upon him to do the work that no one else wanted to do. It was not, however, like Jack had no interesting cases, it had just been a while, and he missed getting the credit, and even more the rush he felt when he got to the solution. But here the rent was paid for, and so Jack told himself to suck it up, and maybe one day he'd get a case worth the effort.

This is what was rattling in Jack's mind as he trotted up the front steps, past the secretary.

“Good afternoon, Jack.” She called to him in a whining New York accent, but he ignored it. “So sorry about Eddie, poor soul, he was such a sweetie.” Jack mumbled an acknowledgement but continued on. He strode quickly to the staircase, and finally made it to his own cluttered space without seeing anyone else. He shut the door behind him and winced, his head pounding. He glanced around the room, at the papers strewn about, the file cabinets hanging open, sighed, and walked over to his desk, sat down, and pulled the closet stack of paperwork to him. He looked over the typewritten notes, not taking in anything, his mind wheeling. (What are they doing, I wonder? Have they found him yet? Did they track him down?) His thoughts were then interrupted by a coarse knock on the fogged glass in the door.

“Harper? It's O'Neil. You in yet? Bertha said she saw you come in, and that you looked awful.”

Jack suppressed a snicker of sarcasm at this, and instead replied,

“Yeah, I'm here, Chief, come in. What do you want to see me about?”

Police Chief Russell O'Neil, who was one of the few friends Jack had of all his co-workers, was a well-built third-generation Irish immigrant with short hair the color of copper, although now peppered with grey, and hazel eyes that crinkled like an accordion at the edges when he smiled. At this moment, however, he looked rather solemn as he stood in the doorway.

“Sergeant wants to see you, Jack, says it's important.”

Jack begrudgingly got up form behind his desk, and walked to the door where Russell stood looking at him.

“You all right, Jack, you don't look so good.”

“I had a long night, Russell. A long night.” Russell took this to be a signal not to probe further, and gave up the topic so that they reached the door to the Sergeant's lair in silence.

“Good luck in there, Jack.”

“Thanks.”